Aftermath
by Pica Ludica
Summary: It's been several months since that day, and John is struggling to cope. Until one afternoon, a strange man follows him home...  Loosely based on the opening events of "The Empty House"; johnlock-ish if you choose to read it that way.


_[Disclaimer: the characters and the series on which this work is based are the property of their respective owners. This is just a writing exercise, and let's be honest, quite a bit of self-indulging.]_

As the stranger blabbed on, John felt anger rising. He had barely slept ever since… ever since that day, and his nerves were raw. He was fighting off the urge to punch the man in the face. Who was he, anyway? How did he invite himself into the apartment? John didn't seem able to shake him off, and he just _wouldn't leave_. The doctor was now wishing he hadn't helped picking up the man's books when he had walked into him in the street. The stranger was now in full ramble, describing in detail the many merits of his encyclopedias, and John couldn't care less. Part of him was listening, though. He had a nagging feeling that something important was going on, and somehow the man seemed familiar. There wasn't anything remarkable about his features or his clothing, but his voice reminded him of someone. Not the tone, but that annoying, annoying, so very annoying undercurrent of knowledgeable superiority that was running somewhere in it. John felt a pang of pain somewhere in his chest, the ghost of a pain. He had managed to keep Sherlock out of his mind for a couple of weeks now, but the memory of him was now coming back with a vengeance. Just as the image of his deceased friend surfaced in his mind, he suddenly heard his voice in his head, as clear as a bell. It had been months, but he remembered it as if he were hearing it right now, rattling away, dissecting a crime, talking too fast, thinking too fast, far too fast for John to follow.

The stranger wouldn't shut up. The doctor felt the sting of angry, bitter tears on his eyes, and was about to shout at the man, to drive him away. But as he turned, as he met his gaze, he realized the voice he had been hearing wasn't in his head. It was disguised, it wasn't speeding at its usual pace, but it was right here, in this room, coming out from the strange man in front of him. He suddenly heard it all, the little telltale inflections of Sherlock's voice, his smug tone, carefully hidden, but now ringing in Watson's ears like a church bell.

"It's you," he muttered, his eyes opening wide in shock.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" the stranger replied, affecting surprise. John could see it all now. The man was wearing lenses, but the razor sharp gaze of those aquiline eyes was showing through as clear as day.

"Stop it. Just stop it," John said in a choked whisper. His hands clenched into tight fists, and shook with barely controlled emotion, fingernails digging deep into the flesh. That urge to punch the man… How could he have missed it, any of it? Before he knew what he was doing, he had seized the stranger by the collar, ready to drive a fist into his face.

"You bastard," John snarled, his voice broken, "You were dead. You were _dead_. You were lying on that pavement. _You jumped right before my eyes._"

At those words, the man underwent a transformation. The make up, the wig, the old, worn clothes were all still there. But he wasn't a random man from the street anymore. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes was staring right back at Watson.

"John," he began, in that calm, infuriating tone of his. That did it. Sherlock winced, bracing himself.

But the punch never came. John lowered his arm, and instead flung it awkwardly around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. He was shaking violently, tears now flowing freely on his cheeks. There was a gentle murmur in his ear:

"How did you know?"

The sudden softness of Sherlock's voice surprised him. John answered into Holmes' shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of the coat:

"_You're_ asking me…?" he scoffed. "Even dressed up like that… You were still bloody _advertising _how smart you are! Could you have been any more _obvious_?"

"Everyone else was fooled," Sherlock answered quietly. John felt a hesitant hand on his back, then an arm was gingerly wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't have the strength to speak anymore. All the sleepless nights, all those months of cold emptiness eating at him from the inside, all the heartache, it was all pressing heavily on him now, as if an invisible shell which had surrounded him was suddenly falling apart. His voice caught in his throat as he tried to say Sherlock's name, and came out as a quiet sob. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his friend's coat and held onto him as if his life depended on it. In a way, it did. As the last of his strength left him, he felt arms closing around him, supporting him, holding him close. He passed out to the sound of Sherlock's voice.

_Forgive me, John._

* * *

><p>The street, the cab. St Bart's hospital. The rooftop. Sherlock's voice on the phone.<p>

_Goodbye, John._

The fall. The fall. The sickening noise of a body hitting the pavement.

"SHERLOCK!"

John awoke with at start as he screamed out. He felt feverish. There was a thin veil of sweat on his brow, and his breath was short. That dream again... It had been a while since the last time-

- had he been dreaming, then? John's eyes darted across the room. He was about to get up when a steadying hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Calm down, John, I'm right here."

John's breath caught in his chest. He turned slowly to his right, almost afraid to look.

Sherlock Holmes.

Alive and well, and sitting right next to him on his couch.

John's hand went to his on its own, as if to ascertain that it was substantial, and not some kind of hallucination. His eyes felt raw. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was as dry as his throat:

"What happened?"

"You passed out," Sherlock replied casually. "Exhaustion. From your state, I'd say you haven't been eating or sleeping properly, so it was –"

"To _you_, Sherlock!" John interrupted angrily. "What the _hell_ happened to _you_? And why - ?"

"Why didn't I let you know?" Sherlock finished, his voice deadly calm now. He took his hand from John's shoulder, and looked away. Staring at the carpet at his feet, he eventually said:

"I needed you to believe I was dead. I needed to disappear. Until I could deal with Moriarty's men, me being alive was a death sentence to you. You were a target, John. Because of me. And you, of all people, would've given me away if you knew I was alive."

"_What?_" John shouted, bitterly hurt. "How can you even _think_-?"

"They were watching you," Sherlock went on, taking no notice of John's outburst. "They had been warned, of course. Simply seeing me die wouldn't be enough, it wouldn't call them off. They had to make sure I stayed dead." He paused, still pointedly looking at the carpet.

"You never were a good actor, John," he said quietly. "You wouldn't have been able to fake grief. Not convincingly, and certainly not for long. If you had known, they would have noticed it eventually. I'm sorry I had to put you through this ordeal, but it was the only way to protect you."

John was divided between anger, relief and curiosity. He was having trouble assimilating the fact that his friend was indeed alive, and dozens of questions were burning in his mind. He wanted to ask how Sherlock had faked his death, what had happened on that rooftop, what he had been up to since… He also wanted to punch him, a recurring urge he had learned to ignore.

He studied Sherlock's face instead. Something was wrong. He hadn't noticed at first, but those usually piercing eyes looked haunted. He blatantly avoided looking John in the eye. His whole body betrayed signs of great stress and fatigue having been kept in check for far too long. He had qualified what John had experienced as an "ordeal", but what had Sherlock himself gone through? And now, after all these months, his nerves, his flawless self-control seemed to be giving way. John's anger melted, and was replaced with concern as he witnessed his friend's distress.

"Sherlock," he began, "you don't need to work yourself up over this. I know what you think of feelings, and who knows, maybe you _were_ right to keep me in the dark. That doesn't matter now. But you really have to stop worrying about me being in any kind of danger. I was a soldier, I can deal with this. I am not afraid to - "

"_I_ am!" Sherlock interrupted, turning sharply towards John, any pretense of composure gone. "That wasn't the first time I have put your life into jeopardy. I keep letting it happen, I _make_ it happen. And… standing on that rooftop, I hesitated. _I hesitated_, _John_. Your life in my hands, and I was tempted to just walk away."

"You didn't, though," John replied quietly. He didn't like where this was going. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock's discourse on the phone had been an act that day, but this certainly wasn't. He was breaking down. The greater was the mind, the greater would the ruin be should it collapse.

"Sherlock, I chose to stay with you. _Because_ it was dangerous, remember?"

"You don't understand, do you?" Holmes replied, staring at the carpet again, his gaze running wild over the patterns. "I came within an inch of becoming just like him. This is what he meant. This wasn't about discrediting me. He wanted to see me fall, fall into madness. He wanted me to join him in his pit. He really was burning the heart out of me. He nearly succeeded."

"Sherlock," John began, gripping his friend's shoulder. But Holmes was withdrawing. John seized both his shoulders then, and made him turn to face him. "Sherlock, _listen to me_." He took a deep breath to calm himself down and continued:

"You were there when Mrs. Hudson and I went to visit your… grave."

It wasn't a question, John already knew the answer.

"You heard what I said then."

Sherlock's eyes darted away from his own. That was acknowledgement enough.

"I meant every word, and I still do now. It doesn't matter to me what people may say against you, I _will_ always be at your side."

John winced inwardly at his own words. Where had _that_ come from?

"_On_ my side," Sherlock corrected automatically.

"Yes, yes" John said impatiently, slightly troubled. It was unlikely that the possible implications of that slip had escaped Sherlock's notice, but the doctor could only hope. His therapist would have a field day with this, John thought bitterly. He was cheered, though, by the fact that his friend had bothered to correct him at all. It was reassuring to get even a glimpse of his old self, at this point. But John wasn't getting through to him. He could see an increasingly violent turmoil taking hold of Sherlock's mind. His friend's hands were trembling slightly, there were nervous twitches in his face. He freed himself from John's grasp, and turned away. Acting on impulse, the doctor then put an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and pulled him close. He felt Holmes' muscles stiffen.

"John, what -?" Sherlock began, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Just shut up, will you?" John answered wearily. "You're in shock."

"Don't be absurd. I'm not in _shock_." Holmes scoffed. John repressed a smile at the trace of indignation in his voice.

"Yes, you are," he continued casually. "I'm still a doctor, so do try to take my word for it."

There was a miffed grunt in the general area of his right shoulder, where Sherlock's head was now resting. John could feel him relax gradually, almost grudgingly. They sat in silence for a while. It might have been seconds like it could have been an hour, John couldn't tell. Eventually, he spoke again:

"Look," he began hesitantly, "there is nothing to forgive, all right? You are what you are, and I wouldn't still be here if I couldn't accept that. And even if you have put my life into danger, you have also saved it many times, and I'm grateful for that."

He gently squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, and went on, his voice dwindling almost to a whisper:

"You're an annoying dick, but I've missed you. God, I've missed you so much."

Those words had an immediate effect on Holmes. A tremor shook his lean frame. He buried his face into John's shoulder, and the doctor was shocked to feel a slight dampness through his shirt. He tentatively pulled Sherlock closer. The man offered no resistance, obediently nestling against John's chest. As he held his friend, John felt a dull ache which was slowly making its way into his throat, choking him. This tall, towering, raptor-like figure, with his detached demeanor and arrogant assurance, now seemed so small in his arms. When was the last time he had cried? That the man even knew _how_ came as a guilty surprise to John. In a way, he felt privileged. He savoured the moment as he could, knowing that quite soon – possibly in a few minutes, even – the fleeting glimpse into Sherlock's soul would fade, his heart locked once again in a fortress of pure reason and nerves of steel. It was a unique opportunity, and despite the circumstances, John was glad for it. Words failed him completely, and so he simply tightened his embrace, fighting off a fresh wave of tears.

Time passed quietly, as if the world outside had been hushed. After a while, Sherlock's breathing became slow and regular. John softly called his name, but Holmes didn't stir. He had fallen into a deep sleep. Trouble was, he was still tightly latched onto Watson, and there was no way of making him let go without waking him. John groped for a way out of the situation, but could find none. He gave up with a resigned sigh, and carefully leaned into the sofa, trying to make himself comfortable without disturbing his slumbering friend. Relaxing into the couch, he felt drowsy himself, gently lulled into sleep by the exhaustion of the day as well as the comforting warmth of Sherlock's body against his chest. As he was dozing off, an amused smile played on his lips, and he muttered to himself:

"People will definitely talk."

Somewhere in his dreams, a familiar voice whispered back:

_People do little else._

_[Author's comments: After years of unfinished projects, I've finally completed a ficlet. This being my first finished fanfiction, comments that would help me improve my writing are very, very welcome. _

_As a sidenote, I do realize that the events of "The Adventure of the Empty House" take place three years after "The Final Problem", but that was too long for my purposes. I wanted the traumatic experience to be fairly fresh in John's mind, please bear with me.]_


End file.
